Gravity
by Not Enough Answers
Summary: In order to predict the future, one must first understand the past. The Winter Soldier wasn't Dr. Zola's only experiment, and her past was as entangled with Captain America and the Winter Soldier as S.H.I.E.L.D.'s past was with Hydra. Apparently, what is thought to be dead never actually stays that way.
1. I

**Hello, everyone! This is a partial rewrite of my previous story _Fire and Ice_, but with a different OC and a less confusing backstory (i.e. no flashbacks!) Instead, it will be written in chronological order, beginning in the 1940s and progressing to the present day. The first chapter, which takes place in 2014, is the only exception. **

**Please review/PM me if you have any burning questions! :)**

**DISCLAIMER: I'm just playing around with this world and its characters.**

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_**"The people who are meant to be in your life will always gravitate back towards you, no matter how far they wander."**_

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**2****014**

**Switzerland**

An arrow sliced cleanly through the stale air, soaring high over the cavernous ceiling above and arcing down over the rows of rusted, ancient computers, finally cutting its target perfectly in half. The rope snapped, and the weight of the balcony it had been holding up collapsed with a deafening crash, briefly throwing a cloud of dust and debris over the area. The facility had obviously been abandoned for years, perhaps decades, and judging by the technology of the computers, had been built in the mid-twentieth century.

Clint Barton leapt onto the ruin of the balcony and pulled himself up onto the railing above with barely a grunt, surveying his handiwork. Not only would it take hours for the debris to settle, it blocked the view of anyone who might happen to walk into the room: not that he expected _that_ to happen—the factory was a hundred miles from any sort of populated area, and it had been completely empty for decades.

"Couldn't resist making a scene, huh?" a sultry voice asked from behind him. Clint spun around on one heel and grinned at Natasha Romanoff, who was leaning against the railing waiting for him, having simply taken the stairs to the second floor. The corner of her mouth was upturned in a slight smirk, but as usual, it was impossible to tell whether or not she was genuinely amused.

"You know it," he said flippantly, reaching around to pull another arrow out of his quiver and string it on his bow. "God, this place is a dump. I'm expecting a ghost to attack me at any moment."

"You're not too far off," Natasha replied, silently appearing at his side. They began to walk together down the catwalk; a solid steel door was visible at the end of the walkway. "This was Arnim Zola's personal laboratory before his death forty years ago. S.H.I.E.L.D. intelligence has it on record that he spent most of his time here under the guise of studying the effects of nuclear radiation."

"S.H.I.E.L.D. intelligence?" snorted Clint, unable to help himself. "You mean everybody's intelligence. I wouldn't be surprised if the CIA and MI6 have already infiltrated it."

Natasha glanced at him sideways. "Not everything was leaked," she said. "Hydra's information wasn't."

"So is that why we're here?" Clint asked, raising an eyebrow. "So you can find out everything about Hydra before Fury does?"

She smiled again, wickedly. "Partly," Natasha admitted, "…And partly because I owe Steve."

By now they had reached the door; the metal was rusted and stained, but that didn't stop it from doing its job. Clint reached back into his quiver and drew out a small, oblong rectangular object, flipping a switch on its underside and shoving it into the lock with more force than was strictly necessary. Less than a second later, there was a shower of sparks and the lock completely melted under Clint's fingertips. Natasha shoved the door inward with her shoulder and they stepped inside a dark, disappointingly ordinary hallway—a dim lightbulb covered in spiderwebs hung from the ceiling, and two doors were set into either side of the corridor, giving no clues as to what lay beyond. "So you and Rogers, huh?" Clint asked, stopping in front of the right door. It was secured with nothing more than a padlock; evidently Zola had believed the steel door would keep out any unwelcome intruders.

"Don't be stupid, Barton," Natasha snapped as she got to work on the other door, her fingers deftly picking away at the lock. "He saved my life in Washington more times than I'm willing to admit. The least I can do is help him out a bit."

Clint glanced back at her, his sharp eyes zeroing in on her throat: he was pleased to see a delicate silver chain still hanging there—a necklace he had presented to her shortly before her assignment in D.C. He hadn't expected her to actually wear it, but he'd been legitimately shocked when she'd put it on just before she'd left for the airport.

"See something you like?" Natasha purred in recognition of his poorly disguised jealousy, and Clint realized he had been staring at her. The knowing glint in her eyes made him wonder if she could read his thoughts. Natasha always knew, or at least she knew more than Clint, which he was perfectly happy to accept. It was one of the reasons why their partnership was so efficient, among other words.

"Maybe," Clint said briskly, recovering himself as fast as he could. Now it was his turn to smirk at her. "But you'll never know." Before she could retort, he yanked the padlock free and pushed the door open. He knew he would pay for that later, likely in the most painful way possible, but for now he could relish the sweet taste of victory.

He stepped forward into an unusually cold room that was completely empty save for a tall, upright metal container standing in the far corner. Fluorescent lights flickered on hazily overhead at Clint's approach, lighting his path directly to it. He thought, with an uneasy twist in the pit of his stomach that he would never dare to even acknowledge, that it looked very much like a coffin. Had Zola been trying to resurrect the dead? The floor was tiled and white, the walls covered with a plaster coating. The room was hardly larger than the hallway outside, and Clint guessed that the main room had been Zola's actual laboratory: this was something no one else had been meant to see. Perhaps Zola and a few doctors, but S.H.I.E.L.D. certainly wouldn't have known about it.

He carefully made his way over to the…_machine_, for lack of a better word. Up close, he could see that, like the door, it had begun to rust, and a low humming could be heard emanating from inside, as if it was some sort of old-fashioned refrigerator. Letting his curiosity get the better of him, Clint reached out and placed his hand on its side: it was cold to the touch and vibrated slightly under his fingers.

He wasn't so sure he should have agreed to accompany Natasha anymore. There were days when Clint would have scoffed at infiltrating a Hydra base—after all, he had recovered from being possessed and helped fight a god and his alien army—but today was not one of them. Now he just wanted a television and a strong drink.

At the top of the machine was a circular window that Clint could see was covered in condensation. What the hell _was _this? He could think of no other explanation for it aside from a refrigerator. Maybe the fruits and vegetables were unhappy that they couldn't see outside. Clint snorted under his breath as he wiped the condensation away with one hand. If Zola really _had _been trying to create sentient vegetables, he called dibs on telling Fury.

But when he leaned forward and peered inside, what he saw was most definitely _not _food.

"Clint, I've been calling you for the past five minutes," Natasha said in exasperation, striding forward into the room with her arms crossed against the cold. "There's an operating room back there—looks like the surgeons must have stopped in the middle of a procedure; there's blood all over the table, but I don't know how old it is. I managed to retrieve a vial and take pictures." She shrugged, unaffected—she'd certainly seen much worse in her day. "Zola might have brought the Winter Soldier here for further experimentation."

"I don't think so," Clint said, his lips barely moving. "Nat, look."

His dumbfounded tone was one he rarely employed—not letting her interest show on her face, Natasha stepped forward and followed his gaze into the machine. Clint looked over at her, gauging her reaction—her phone was already in her hand. An unfamiliar number flashed on the screen as she handed it to Clint, her lips pursed into a thin line.

"Call Fury," Natasha ordered. "He's going to want to see this."


	2. II

**I'd like to thank all of you for reading, following, favoriting, and especially reviewing this humble little story! It means the world to me, it really does.**

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**1942**

**Brooklyn, New York**

A violent gust of wind shook the apartment, rattling the windowpanes and sending a flurry of snow through the crack under the front door. Beatrice Hartley pulled her old, ratted blanket more tightly around her shoulders and shivered, huddling herself into a ball so she could be closer to the dying fire. The logs were nearly burnt to ashes, and she wasn't about to drag herself through the raging blizzard to buy more. In fact, she doubted she could even afford to buy _one_ log. It was fast becoming clear to her that she had no idea how to live on her own, much less live on her own in the dead of winter.

The unmistakable sound of a baby's wail jolted her from her reverie. That was Henry, fussing again: Beatrice forced her frozen legs to move and stood up, reluctantly leaving the circle of warmth to fetch the bottle stored in the kitchen. She had to be careful how much she fed him, since milk was rationed and there was always a shortage of it in the city.

Sure enough, her brother was awake when she tiptoed into the bedroom—she'd moved his crib into her room so she could keep an eye on him at night—and crying loud enough to wake every person in Brooklyn. "Shhh," Beatrice whispered to him, setting the bottle down before gently gathering him up in her arms, noting with worry that his cheeks were cold.

Henry was only six months old, but in many ways it was as if years had passed since his birth. Beatrice had become his sole caretaker after her mother died in childbirth and her father had descended even deeper into an alcoholic haze. She leaned over and kissed his forehead very softly, running her hand over his head and admiring how his red hair glinted in the firelight. She had no family but Henry now. With her parents both dead, she owned nothing more than their tiny apartment and the clothes on her back. She knew she could try to find a job at one of the many weapons factories around New York, but there would be no one to look after Henry while she was away and no guarantee that she would be able to pay the rent or provide for both of them. She'd barely managed to convince the landlord that she was capable of managing the household alone.

Another gust of icy wind blew inside, scattering the ashes across the floor and making her shiver again. After putting Henry back down, Beatrice ghosted over to the yellowed lace curtains, drawing them back with one finger and peering outside onto the snowy street below. Nothing was visible save for the momentary glow of a streetcar as it slowly drove down the road, leaving long tracks in the snow. She couldn't even see the distant glow of the Manhattan lights across the river, and once the car had disappeared around the corner, she had the unnerving sensation that she was the only living soul in the city.

Beatrice retreated back into the room, staring forlornly at the dying embers. For the first time in her life, she was completely alone. She had no family who could take her or Henry in—all four of their grandparents were dead, their father had no siblings, and though her mother had once or twice mentioned having an elder brother, Beatrice knew nothing of the whereabouts of her mysterious relative. A well-meaning neighbor had suggested that she should bring Henry to the orphanage if she was ever unable to care for him any longer. Apparently she herself had grown up in a children's home at the turn of the century, and was adamant that she would not be the same person she was without it. In some respects, Beatrice knew that at least there Henry would never have to know hunger or loneliness, and he would receive an education—things that she couldn't promise to give to him—and, since he was so young, he had a higher chance of being adopted into a caring family—but she couldn't bear to give her brother up. After twenty years of stillborn after stillborn, Henry had been her only sibling to survive, but his birth had cost Elena Hartley her life. Henry and Beatrice were both testaments to survival. She would fight to the death to keep him safe, even if it meant that she sacrificed her own well-being to do so.

With one last sputter of sparks, the fire finally died, leaving nothing but a fine wisp of smoke curling up into the cold air. Beatrice sighed, her breath fanning out in a long cloud, and realized with an unpleasant jolt that her eyes were wet. She hadn't cried properly since her father had died; everything after that had been a blur of finding enough money to pay for a funeral and selling what unimportant possessions she owned. Now the apartment was almost completely bare, and she had no idea how much longer they could live like this. If it was just her, she wouldn't have been as worried, but _Henry…_

The grandfather clock in the corner, the only other piece of furniture in the room that hadn't been sold, chimed midnight with its usual deafening gongs. Beatrice wasn't even sure herself what she was still awake for; there was nothing for her to do, and although her stomach ached dully from lack of food, all they had in the kitchen was a quarter of a loaf of bread and half a bottle of milk. Perhaps there was some cheese left over from when she had last gone shopping. The refrigerator had been filled with bottles before John Hartley's death, but of course Beatrice had sold them all. Now, ironically, she thought that a drink right now wouldn't have been such a bad idea.

Beatrice fetched herself a glass of water from the tub in the kitchen before heading back into the bedroom. Henry was thankfully fast asleep again, one chubby fist clutching his thin blanket. She pulled her own blanket over herself as she climbed into bed and blew out the candle, casting the room in darkness. "Good night, Henry," she whispered to him before rolling over and closing her eyes, trying to ignore the hunger that now constantly gnawed at her insides.

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Hours later, she awoke shivering and completely drenched, as if she had been submerged in freezing water. Horrified, she bolted upright and threw her blanket off to see that the bed was completely soaked, and a torrent of ice and snow was pouring in through a crack on the ceiling. They lived on the bottom floor, and anything coming in through the upper walls meant it originated from the ground level. There had occasionally been insects and small floods during particularly bad seasons, but there had never been anything like this in Beatrice's memory.

She yelped the second her feet touched the floor, quickly stifling the sound—the water was up to her ankles. Chunks of half-melted ice were floating across the current, and as she waded over to Henry's crib, she saw that the trunk containing the few outfits she owned was almost completely submerged. All she was wearing was a light blue cotton dress that was torn down the sleeve and was now the only piece of dry clothing in sight. It was no match for the winter, and Henry's poorly-stitched pyjamas were the only thing he had.

To Beatrice's relief, he was miraculously still asleep. She scooped him up and stuffed her feet into ratted slippers before wading out of the room. After giving the apartment a quick once-over, she realized, her heart dropping, that the hallway, bathroom, kitchen, living room, and second bedroom were all completely submerged. Pieces of plaster were swirling around her feet—the old apartment had evidently been unable to withstand the blizzard. She knew that they hadn't been able to afford installing extra protection around the windows, and their landlord had refused to cover the cost for them. The rest of the building's tenants had gotten the renovations, but John had said it wasn't a necessity. _And your drinks were? _Beatrice now thought bitterly, struggling to balance Henry in one arm as she wrenched open the front door with a great effort against the flood. She knew the landlord wouldn't allow her back inside unless she was able to pay for the damages.

Now she was beginning to panic; of all the nights she had to be driven out, this took the cake. There was no way of knowing how high the water in the apartment would get, and she had nowhere to go—unless one of the neighbors took pity on her—

But she already knew that wasn't an option. Due to John's reputation for public intoxication and his general drunken manner, the Hartleys had never been popular on the street. The only neighbor Beatrice might have a chance with was in her eighties and lived in a one-bedroom apartment. Mrs. Banner was a nice woman, but Beatrice knew she would try to take Henry to the orphanage, and that was definitely not an option. Beatrice clutched him tighter in her arms as she stumbled out onto the snowy street, and promised herself that she would never leave him. He was her only family now—she had a duty to take care of him. She would even go to the women's shelter and pretend he was her own son if she had to.

The sun was just beginning to rise over the tall buildings of Manhattan in the distance as Beatrice adjusted a still-sleeping Henry in her arms and resolutely stepped forward onto the sidewalk, her shoulders hunched against the freezing air. Her painfully thin stockings offered no protection against the elements, and the water on the floor had already soaked the insides of her shoes. If only this was summer, she would be able to abandon them and walk barefoot…then again, if it was summer, she would hardly be in this position. She vaguely knew that there was a homeless shelter somewhere on Church Avenue, which was a thirty-minute walk away. At the very least, they might have somewhere warm to sleep until she figured out what she was supposed to do.

Beatrice's arms were shaking, but not from the weight of holding Henry anymore. She kept her head down as she wove through the sidewalk, trying to stay calm. The cold air bit at every inch of exposed skin, and after a while her hands turned red and numb, which was almost worse than the biting wind. _Just one more step, _she kept telling herself over and over. _Just one more step, and you'll be there…just one more…_Perhaps she would have once found it humiliating that she was forced into a shelter, but her survival instincts took precedence over her pride at the moment. She had to get Henry some food and warmth, and neither of those things could happen in the flooded apartment. There had to be some way to get it back. She knew there was a weapons factory down by the Navy Yard where many women worked. If she could only get Henry looked after during the day, she could work there until she was able to afford the damages…if only John had installed the protection like he was _supposed _to…if only he had taken Elena to the hospital in time instead of forcing her to give birth at home…if only he hadn't been a drunkard…the children at school had used to call Beatrice names, taunting her about her useless father. She'd left school for good at fifteen, three years before she was supposed to graduate: it hadn't done her any good. By then they had no income except for what little money Elena's odd jobs brought them, and that had all gone to fund John's addiction. Beatrice had become a typist at a local dentist's office, but once the war broke out it had been forced to close.

She was so busy trying to keep her balance that she didn't notice someone right in front of her until she'd already bumped into them; she gasped and jumped back, making sure Henry wasn't jostled. "I'm sorry, sir," she immediately apologized as the man gave her a dirty look, adjusting his hat. "I hope you are uninju—Mr. Goldstein!" Beatrice's outburst was unladylike, but she couldn't help herself. Of all the people to run into on the street, she'd found her landlord. Hope burst inside her chest, undeterred even by his glare.

"I received a call this morning from a tenant leaving the building, who explained that the storm last night appears to have flooded the bottom apartment. I was just on my way to look at it." Mr. Goldstein sounded very irritated by that fact, as if he had a thousand better things to do than examine his own property.

"Yes—I woke up to find everything drenched," Beatrice explained, her words tumbling over each other in their rush to leave her brain. "I didn't have the storm drains installed, and Henry and I have no other family to stay with. I know that you stated you are not liable for any damages, but we have nowhere to go but the shelter—"

"Then you will have to hope there is a spot for you," Mr. Goldstein said gruffly. "Look, girl, I allowed you to stay after the death of your parents out of the goodness of my heart, but you ought to have been married years ago. I am afraid that I cannot allow you back inside the apartment until the damages are fully paid for. As of now, you are no longer a tenant in my building. Good day." And with that, he began to stride away, like he hadn't just destroyed what little consistency remained in her life.

Beatrice stared after him dumbly, gaping in surprise like a fish. "Sir!" she called back, the cold scraping her throat raw. "I will do anything—" But it was too late; he had already disappeared. She'd already known he wouldn't allow her back in, but the notion that they were truly homeless now hit her like a brick. Mr. Goldstein had always been looking for an excuse to evict them, and here was one, ready-made. She doubted he would even allow her to go back and retrieve her possessions—not that she would have gone, anyway. At least the things that were now damaged beyond repair hadn't been objects she particularly wanted to keep.

By the time Beatrice turned onto Church Avenue, her teeth were chattering madly and she could no longer feel her extremities. Henry was beginning to stir, and she noticed that his fingers were turning blue. Or perhaps they were her fingers—she couldn't tell anymore. The cold had now turned into something that resembled a twisted warmth.

When she finally stumbled into the brownstone building with the words _Brooklyn Mission _slashed above the door in fading blue letters, she nearly collapsed onto the floor. The trouble was, she wasn't the only one with that idea. Bodies were crammed onto every available inch of floor space, huddling against the cold. Most were dressed in little more than rags and all had the same empty look in their eyes. She couldn't even see into the main room.

"Sorry, we're full," a voice barked from somewhere beside her, and she turned around to see a severe-looking woman wearing a nurse's uniform carrying a tray laden with bowls of yellow soup. "There's no room left. You're not the only one affected by the blizzard."

In a fit of desperation, Beatrice held Henry out to her, his green eyes blinking imploringly. "Then at least take my brother. He's just a baby."

"I can see that." She pursed her lips disapprovingly.

"_Please," _Beatrice begged.

But she could already tell that it was a lost cause. "We cannot take him, I am sorry."

As if on cue, Henry began to wail loudly, waving his tiny fists around in the air. A few people raised their heads to glare at them, and the woman nearly shoved a bowl of soup at Beatrice, the liquid sloshing over the sides and running down the porcelain. "Give this to the baby," she ordered. Seeing Beatrice's expression, something in her own face seemed to soften. "There is an orphanage just two blocks away. They will take him."

Beatrice's entire body recoiled at the thought of going back outside, but she had no other choice. Her arms were shaking with the effort of holding Henry up, and she struggled to balance him and not drop the bowl of soup. After thanking the woman as truthfully as she could, who stared after her with something like pity in her eyes, she carefully navigated through the bodies lying on the floor back outside.

She'd barely staggered ten steps down the sidewalk when it became clear that she would not be able to make it two blocks. A wave of overwhelming exhaustion had suddenly hit her out of nowhere, and now all she wanted to do was sleep. She was tired…so tired…she would just rest her eyes for a minute and then she would have the strength to carry on again…

"Are you—h-hungry, H-Henry?" Beatrice asked him, but the words wouldn't come out properly: her tongue was as heavy as iron in her mouth and her speech was slurred. Paying no heed to the pedestrians hurrying around her, she sat down right in the middle of the sidewalk, balancing Henry in her lap. She tried to give him a spoonful of the soup, but her hands were shaking so badly it kept tilting and splashing on his blanket instead. She was dimly aware that he was still crying, but his wails were muted to her ears, as if she was hearing him from the opposite side of a long tunnel.

Still, she had no intention of bringing him to the orphanage. She wouldn't allow him to grow up without at least one member of his family around—she would wash Goldstein's floors until she saved up enough money to repair the apartment. Beatrice remembered, before drink became the most important thing in his life, her father reading bedtime stories to her—_A Little Princess _had been her childhood favorite. While Sara Crewe had gone from being unimaginably rich to unimaginably poor, Beatrice wished for the opposite. That had been John's nickname for her, too: a little princess. Of course, once he'd been laid off for repressed shellshock after his time in the Great War, there had been no more of those stories, and whiskey had become his constant companion.

Her mother, on the other hand, had been a seamstress, the daughter of hardworking Russian immigrants. Beatrice remembered throwing the needle down and crying when she couldn't get her sewing to look exactly as Elena's did, and her mother had put a hand over hers and told her that she was a better healer than Elena herself was, that she had the gift of repairing things. So far, she had turned out to be correct, and Beatrice had always been Henry's caregiver. But she was tired of spending her energy on other people. In her twenty-two years of life, she'd hardly been able to spare a thought for herself.

She leaned her head back against a snowbank and closed her eyes, feeling oddly peaceful. She was no longer aware of her surroundings, or her shivers, or even Henry, who was still bawling his eyes out. Snowflakes were still drifting down from the coppery gray sky, and she was quickly lulled into sleep by their calm, silent journey, promising herself that she would rest for just thirty seconds…

…"Wake up. _Wake up." _A harsh, insistent voice was sounding in her ear, shaking her shoulder. She tried to shrug it off, to lose herself in unconsciousness again, but the pull back to reality was too strong. Opening her eyes took every bit of effort she had, and for a second all she saw was swirling snow. Then a face hovering in front of her own finally snapped into focus—the rimmed glasses and dark hair was one she dimly recognized. She was still sitting on the sidewalk in front of the shelter, in the same spot she had fallen asleep on. How much time had passed?

"Mrs. Banner," Beatrice slurred. She couldn't move her body at all anymore, and her thoughts were whirling in a slow state of confusion. She was cold…_so cold…_"What are you—what are you doing here?"

"I found you like this. My _God_, child, you're frozen and half-dead. I'll bring you to the hospital—if you're lucky, you'll only have one or two fingers amputated…"

Beatrice dumbly looked down at her arms, and with a dull jolt she saw that they were empty. _Henry. _"My brother," was all she could say. "Where is he?"

"I took him to the orphanage," Mrs. Banner said. She grabbed hold of Beatrice's arm and hoisted her up into a standing position; she could barely support herself. The bowl of soup had spilled all over the sidewalk. "He'll be safer there, unless you were deliberately putting him at risk for hypothermia."

Panic seized her again, the strongest emotion she'd felt yet. _No. _She had made a promise to herself that he wouldn't go to the orphanage. She had to protect him—she had to—

Beatrice turned on one heel and began to run down the street, forcing her muscles to move. Pain lanced through her with every step she took, but adrenaline was propelling her forward. She heard Mrs. Banner calling after her, but Beatrice ignored it—she had to find Henry. He was the only important thing to her right now.

The mantra repeated over and over in her mind as she ran, but pure adrenaline only lasted so long, and after a point she was unable to continue any longer. Her legs simply gave out from under her, and she collapsed, her head hitting the ground hard. A momentary flash of pain blinded her, and then she was lying on the cold ground, her cheek pressed against the snow. She no longer felt as if she was inhabiting her own body, and the horrible exhaustion overwhelmed her again. _Henry, _she thought—or maybe she said it aloud—and with that, the last reserve of her strength completely failed her.

Beatrice wasn't sure how long she lay there, hearing her heartbeat growing slower and slower and trying to accept the fact that she was dying, when there was a dull thud from beside her as if something had been slammed into the wall, and loud, angry voices were suddenly piercing the air. She couldn't even move her head to see what was going on; there was another slam, followed by two more—or maybe three—and then, finally, silence.

It felt like an eternity had passed before she heard someone speak again. "Ma'am, are you all right?" a male voice was asking, and through her blurred vision she saw something yellow and blue—the dim outline of another person beside her.

_Are you God? _Beatrice tried to ask. _If you are, please keep Henry safe. _But she couldn't speak, and now the figure was disappearing from the edges of her vision. "Ma'am?" he asked again, and his outline drew slightly closer, as if he had knelt down beside her. Something very warm touched her hand, and she involuntarily let out a cry of shock.

She didn't remember much after that.


	3. III

_Cold._

She was drowning in it, freezing in it. She had been cold many times before, of course, but at least then she'd had a warm fire to huddle in front of or a blanket to wrap herself in or, when she was a child, her parents' arms.

But this was no ordinary feeling. The cold was relentless, unforgiving, snaking its way like blood through her veins and permeating every inch of her skin. She could think of nothing, concentrate on nothing, except for that. She had almost forgotten what warmth felt like. She had no body of her own, no entity besides the cold. Later on, she would understand that she had been drifting in and out of consciousness, her body shutting down to try and prevent her temperature from becoming critically low, but it was nearly too late. If she'd been lying in that alley for even five more minutes, she would have surely died.

But Beatrice didn't realize any of it until much later. All she could think was that she wanted to die—but it wasn't that, precisely. She didn't want to die—she just wanted the absence of feeling. She didn't want to _feel _anymore. It was too much, and something had gone terribly wrong but she couldn't remember what, and she wanted to feel Henry safe in her arms, and, childishly, she wanted her mother, murmuring comforting Russian in her ears as she used to do when Beatrice was young. Many times Elena had tried to teach her native language to her daughter, but Beatrice had put up such a fuss with the unfamiliar alphabet that her mother had eventually given up on her.

She wasn't exactly sure how long it had been when she next became aware of something other than the cold, but at least she knew she wasn't outside anymore. She could now see the outline of an unfamiliar bedroom, her vision not yet clear enough to perceive all the details. A floral pattern adorned the walls and ceiling, and two wooden bedposts shaped the edges of her limited sight. Hazily, she thought that she had never slept in a nicer bed. It took her several more half-conscious driftings in and out of oblivion before she realized that she was no longer cold, but her body was still shivering in the echo of the memory.

Muttered voices brought her back to the conscious realm once again. They were both distinctly masculine, now, and Beatrice's eyes fluttered open in surprise. She'd expected to wake up in the shelter, or even at Mrs. Banner's apartment, if she survived at all. John Hartley had never been a God-fearing man, and therefore neither was his family, but if Beatrice had been asked to describe a possible afterlife, this was not what she would have imagined.

"I couldn't just leave her there, Buck." The loud, pleading voice of a young man reached Beatrice's ears first as her hearing sharpened—a startlingly familiar voice—and it didn't take her long to match the voice of the same boy who had seen her in the alleyway. Now Beatrice was able to see him properly, and she realized that he wasn't a boy at all—he was, in fact, no younger than her, but barely taller and with a boyish-looking face. His frame was skinny almost to the point of ill health, and his cheekbones were hollowed in. His overall appearance coupled with a grisly purple bruise under his left eye almost prompted Beatrice to ask if he shouldn't be the one lying down instead. At least her dry sense of humor had returned.

And yet, there was more than just surface familiarity to him: she was sure she had seen him before, but _where? _

"Of all the things to happen to you on Christmas Eve, you get beaten up and take a girl back to your place afterwards," a second voice replied, sounding at once rueful, amused, and more than slightly incredulous. "Seriously, pal, what were you thinking? You've heard of a hospital, right?"

"She'd be dead before she got there. You should have seen her, Bucky—all blue and nearly frozen. Besides, those _guys _would have gotten her if I hadn't." There was a sharp edge in the not-a-stranger's voice now. "I know how to treat frostbite. Mom used to have those kinds of patients all the time in the winter. There was some medicine left in the cabinet, anyway."

The one called Bucky asked, in a hushed tone, "You don't think she's a harlot, do you?"

"If she was, she shoulda known not to be outside on a day like this."

"So should you," Bucky replied in a sharp tone. "Aw, _Steve, _what are you gonna do? She's probably got family looking for her."

"I don't." This came from Beatrice, who had finally mustered up the energy to speak. Her voice came out as little more than a croaking whisper. Now she opened her eyes fully, and both young men were cast in sharp relief: the blond boy with thin features—Steve—and the more muscular one beside him, who looked like someone straight out of the pictures or one of the glossy magazines that Beatrice could never afford, with a finely chiseled face, neatly combed dark hair and gray eyes. The two of them were as different as night and day; Beatrice didn't think she'd ever seen an odder pair.

Both of them looked startled to discover that she'd been listening to their conversation; Bucky even looked slightly guilty, though the moment was fleeting. "Ma'am, how are you feeling?" Steve asked, leaning forward to survey her with worried blue eyes. Beatrice struggled to push herself up onto her elbows and coughed weakly. She was no longer cold—but neither was she warm, either. The numbness was still coating her body. Outside the small, grimy window behind the boys, she could see a thick, swirling snow, and felt nauseous at the sight.

"Better than before," she replied. "What—what happened?"

"I found you lying in an alleyway on Church Avenue," explained Steve. "I know a bit about treating hypothermia, so I brought you back to my place. I gave you some codeine in case you were in pain and hoped you would pull through. I hope you don't mind, ma'am, but you were in a bad state."

_I thought you were God, _Beatrice almost said, remembering the flash of yellow and blue she'd seen as she had fallen unconscious. But she bit the words back. "Thank you for saving me," she told Steve, looking him directly in the eyes. His face turned pink and he glanced away from her, embarrassed.

"I've told him he needs to start charging for his services," Bucky jumped in, with a cocky grin. "But he won't listen to me."

Beatrice tried to smile politely at him, but her head was whirling so fast she could barely keep up with it. In the space of twelve hours, she had gone from being homeless to losing Henry to nearly dying of hypothermia, and then being rescued by two boys she didn't know. Was some divine power toying with her? At this point, she wouldn't doubt it.

"And I would pay him if I had any money," she ruefully admitted. "I apologize, Mr…" she trailed off, realizing she didn't know his name, and she didn't want to reveal that she'd heard their entire conversation.

"Steve Rogers," the blond boy said. He held out his hand, and Beatrice grasped it weakly, remembering the last spot of warmth she had felt in the alleyway. "And this is Bucky Barnes." Something about his voice was buried deep in Beatrice's memory, and it was then that his inherent familiarity finally clicked in her brain.

On her fifth birthday, she had received a shiny new quarter from her parents as a present, and skipped to the corner store the entire way, where she had bought a stick of peppermint candy, intending to eat it at the park. A group of older boys had followed her out of the store and tried to take it from her, but they had been stopped by a scrawny boy a few years older than Beatrice with a pale, sickly pallor. He had made such a commotion that the store owner had come out and banished the boys, but one of them had snatched the candy out of her hands on the way by. She'd begun to cry, and the skinny boy had run into the store and bought her another piece of candy. Beatrice had broken it in half and gave a piece to him, and the two of them had happily shared the candy together. She had never seen the boy again—she'd long forgotten his name—but it had been an incident that she'd never forgotten. Now she could connect that small boy with the one who had rescued her.

Bucky Barnes was a familiar name as well, although not quite as much as Steve's. Back when she'd attended school, "Bucky" had been the name of a very popular boy—perhaps Beatrice had seen him once or twice in the hallways, but she'd never spoken to him. Now that she thought about it, she did remember some of the girls in her class complaining that he always hung around "that wet blanket Rogers".

"You're the candy boy," she exclaimed to Steve, prompting two baffled looks. "You gave me your candy once after mine got stolen and we ate it in the park together." She quickly did the math in her head. "Seventeen years ago."

Steve's puzzled expression quickly turned into one of dawning comprehension. "I remember that," he said, with a short laugh. "I got punched in the nose, but it was worth it."

"Some things never change, huh, pal?" Bucky asked, playfully shoving Steve on the shoulder. Beatrice noticed that he used a bit less force than was normal, not wanting to hurt him, and then Beatrice knew that the gossipmongers back at school were wrong: Bucky Barnes truly cared for Steve Rogers. He wasn't just friends with him out of pity, as she'd overheard many a time. They were bits of high school gossip that she hadn't bothered to consciously retain once she'd left.

Beatrice smiled at them, slightly less on edge now that she could identify them as peers rather than total strangers. It was then that she remembered she hadn't introduced herself to them, and she quickly said, "I'm Beatrice Hartley."

"Hartley?" Bucky asked, looking slightly surprised. "You're John Hartley's daughter, then. My father was in the 105th Infantry with him during the Great War. He said that John took the conflict the hardest out of all of the men. Said that his heart was in the right place, but his mind wasn't. Dad mentioned that he had a family here in Brooklyn."

Beatrice glanced down at her hands, which were now back to their normal pink hue. Whatever medicine Steve had given her must have helped. "He did," she said quietly.

"Did?" Bucky asked with a slight frown. Beatrice couldn't tell whether he was genuinely curious or not; he'd had a reputation as a notorious flirt.

"He died," she explained, the words harsh and scraping against her tongue. "Last week." She didn't elaborate on the cause of death; if Bucky's father had known him, then Bucky would be able to guess what he had succumbed to.

"Did you go to George Washington?" Steve asked, naming the local public school. He frowned at her as if she had somehow become even more familiar to him. "I don't remember seeing you at graduation."

Beatrice nodded, suddenly ashamed. "I left when I was fifteen." To quell the looks of pity and possibly disapproval that everyone bestowed upon her—after all, what use was a poor, unmarried, uneducated girl?—she added, "I was a typist at Lloyd's Dental before it closed at the beginning of the war." She dragged her hand across her face, knowing that she had to explain to them exactly why she'd been half-frozen when Steve found her. So far they hadn't demanded an explanation, but the question was sure to come. "You see, I don't have…_anyone _right now. My parents are dead, my little brother was taken to an orphanage against my will. I was trying to run after him, but…" She swallowed, picking at a loose thread on the blanket before remembering it wasn't her bed and quickly dropping it. "…But I didn't have the strength to continue. That's when…_Steve_…found me." Beatrice managed a small smile at him, and his answering smile was enough to brighten the entire room like sunlight. "We—my brother Henry and I—were forced out of our apartment after it was flooded because of last night's storm. I can't afford to pay for the repairs, and Goldstein—my landlord—told me I can't go back unless I give him the money." She blushed, realizing her mistake. She could get into a lot of trouble if Goldstein found out what she had said about him.

"I've heard about him," Bucky interjected, to Beatrice's mild surprise. "There was a lawsuit brought against him in Harlem several years ago—claims that he had been unfairly evicting his tenants. The police couldn't find sufficient evidence against him, so he was let go. I guess he's moved to Brooklyn now."

"I don't think I'd be able to afford the rent for another month, anyway," Beatrice admitted ruefully. "It was only a matter of time before I became homeless…I wish it had been in the summer, at least." Some part of her was astonished that she was confiding almost everything about herself to two boys she barely knew, but she had no one else to turn to, and she was extraordinarily grateful to Steve for saving her life. They weren't _complete _strangers, she tried to tell herself. They had once been schoolmates. "I don't need to get my fingers amputated, do I?" she asked, half-serious, and Steve laughed, breaking the tension.

"I don't think so," he said, reaching out and taking one of her hands, closing his own over hers. A warmth such as she had never felt before flooded over Beatrice, and she suddenly felt uncomfortably warm—her temperature had been rising steadily throughout their conversation, but she wasn't about to complain. "I brought Bucky over because, well, he's used to taking care of me when I'm sick, and you're fine according to him."

"As fine as I could tell without taking off your clothes," Bucky said with a roguish smirk, and Beatrice's entire body flooded with heat. "What? It's the standard procedure we learned in class," he said at Steve's glare, who had very quickly dropped her hand. No one had ever spoken so frankly in front of her, especially a boy she didn't know, and she found herself grateful that the blanket covering her was thick.

"You're welcome to stay here for as long as you want," Steve said, and stuttered, clearly uncomfortable, "Until you get better, that is. If you're still not feeling well—"

But Beatrice cut him off. "I'd like to go to the orphanage and find my brother. Please."

The two boys exchanged a long, knowing look, the kind that only friends who knew each other better than they knew themselves had. "My folks own a car," Bucky finally said, with a shrug. "I can drive her over there."

"If it's not too much trouble," Beatrice was quick to say, though she would not have looked forward to trudging through the cold again. She was anxious to see Henry at any cost.

Bucky snorted, his eyes glittering with amusement. "Doll, we wouldn't let you walk back on your own after rescuing you. We're swell guys." The endearment fell from his lips easily, and, meeting Beatrice's gaze, he winked at her. She blinked rapidly in return, unsure where to look, but she couldn't help but wonder if he was just putting on a show. There was something almost calculating and protective in his stare, but of what, she had no idea.

"Are you hungry?" Steve asked, standing up from his chair and shrugging on a jacket that was at least three sizes too big for him. "I don't have much, but I'm sure I can find some dinner…" He trailed off, his wide and earnest eyes looking questioningly at her, and Beatrice was again struck with a sense of implicit trust. There was something so honest and genuine about Steve that was impossible to deny.

Beatrice _was _hungry, but Henry took precedence over her own needs at the moment—so much for vowing to take care of herself—and she didn't want Steve to go to any more trouble after he'd been so kind to her. So she merely shook her head and said, "I'm quite fine; thank you, though." But there was no denying that she was nearly as skinny as Steve himself; Bucky was easily the healthiest out of the three of them.

"Buck?" Steve asked his friend, and Bucky shook his head, leaping effortlessly out of his own chair. "I have stuff in the car, don't worry," he said casually, stuffing his hands in his pockets and heading to the door. Pausing in the doorway, he turned to raise an eyebrow at Beatrice. "You coming?" he asked, with another smirk that had won the hearts of every girl at George Washington High School.

"Yes, of course," Beatrice said, and climbed out of the bed, determined not to show any sign of discomfort at the stiffness of her body as she moved; she felt as if she had been unconscious for days, though it likely had only been for several hours. She knew she must look a mess, and tried in vain to smooth down her hair as she followed the boys out of the room and down a small, narrow hallway covered in the same floral wallpaper as the bedroom. Someone had evidently tried to tear it down—strips were missing from the wall, about shoulder-length, exposing the wood behind—but they appeared to have given up after a few inches. Covering up one of the larger holes was a portrait of a man in military uniform, standing at attention. Beatrice wondered if this was Steve's father, but she was still feeling disoriented and half-believed she was in a dream.

The corridor couldn't have been more than ten feet long, but it still somehow had room for two more doors—Beatrice caught a glimpse of a closet-sized bathroom and the entrance to another bedroom, but the curtains were drawn and her eyes didn't adjust to the light quickly enough to see inside it properly.

Within twenty seconds, all three of them were standing at the front door. It was absurdly small, but it was roughly the size of her apartment—_old _apartment—she had to remind herself with a pang of sorrow—and somehow that fact hit her harder than anything else had. She had nowhere to go anymore after finding Henry. Maybe Steve should have just let her freeze to death.

Bucky said something in a low voice to Steve that Beatrice couldn't quite hear, and, with another glance at her—his eyes weren't full of amusement anymore, but were completely serious and steady—disappeared through the door with a rush of freezing air. Beatrice's arms automatically wrapped around herself at the sensation, and she retreated further back into the apartment, a chill sweeping through her again.

Steve was on his hands and knees in the closet, digging for something Beatrice couldn't see. She wanted to help him, but was frozen—literally—to her spot, and began to wonder if she wasn't recovered after all. Fortunately, Steve straightened up before she could go too far down that train of thought, holding up a black wool jacket that was the most inviting piece of clothing Beatrice had seen in days. "You're about my mom's size—you can borrow her coat."

With a grateful smile, Beatrice took it and saw that someone had sewed the name _Sarah Rogers _into the tag. Like her son, Sarah must not have been very tall. Fortunately, Beatrice wasn't either: the coat fitted her perfectly, as if it had been made specifically for her frame. "I hope your mother doesn't mind that I'm borrowing her coat," she said, worrying her bottom lip as she wrapped the coat as tightly around her as it would go. The cold air no longer seemed so daunting.

Steve shrugged on his own coat, which nearly fell off his thin frame. "I'm sure she wouldn't mind. She was a nurse."

Beatrice frowned. "Was?"

Now Steve glanced away from her, fiddling with the buttons on his coat and seeming to stare at something over Beatrice's shoulder. "She died of tuberculosis last year."

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. She wanted to tell him she knew how it felt losing a mother long before their time, but she kept her mouth shut. At least she understood the reason for the floral wallpaper now.

"Don't be," Steve said, with a slight crooked smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. Clearly, he was used to shrugging off such sentiments. "It's not your fault."

Beatrice wanted to ask about his father, but luckily Steve had already elaborated. "My dad died before I was born—mustard gas. I'm hoping to be in the 107th Infantry like he was," he said with a touch of pride. This was news to Beatrice; she knew that a large portion of the men were away in Europe as soldiers, and many women had become nurses, but she couldn't imagine how scrawny, sickly Steve would ever make it across the ocean, let alone make it out of the war alive.

A loud horn blasting from outside made both of them jump; Bucky's distant voice called, "Have you two gotten lost? The door's open, you know!"

Steve smiled apologetically at Beatrice and stepped back, holding the front door open for her. She murmured her thanks and hurried outside, determined to get inside the car as quickly as possible so she didn't have to spend any longer stuck outside in the cold than she absolutely had to.

The steps leading down from Steve's door were rickety and very precarious; Beatrice had to grasp the railing tightly as she carefully navigated her way down the icy slope, very aware of Steve right behind her and Bucky waiting in the car, a shiny black Ford that looked more expensive than any automobile she had ever been in.

It had been early morning when she had stumbled out onto the street with Henry in her arms; now it was sundown, pink and orange streaks of light shooting across the sky. She vaguely remembered Bucky mentioning something about Christmas Eve—of course, she had been planning to let Christmas pass by without a second thought, but now that it had been mentioned she felt as if she ought to give the boys a thank-you gift before they parted ways once again. At least now she knew where Steve lived; once she was settled in another apartment, hopefully with her brother, she would have to think of some way to repay them. Perhaps she could cook dinner for them—if Steve's mother was dead, he probably didn't know how to cook very well—or do some chores for them—

Beatrice thankfully reached the ground without incident, the blowing snow flying up into her eyes and whipping her hair around her face, and was about to climb in the backseat when she saw Bucky reach over and push open the passenger side door through the darkly tinted window, that wicked grin back on his face. "Get in here, doll," he ordered Beatrice before shooting a sly grin to Steve, who had appeared beside Beatrice. "Sorry, Steve," he called to his friend. "You're not a pretty dame."

Beatrice blushed; no boy had ever called her pretty before. For his part, Steve seemed agreeable enough; he got into the backseat without complaint, and Beatrice cautiously climbed into the passenger seat next to Bucky. As soon as the door shut behind her, he slammed his foot on the gas pedal and the car shot forward, leaving the rows of crumbling redbrick apartments behind. Beatrice noted that they were in Flatbush, not far away from Church Avenue. At least Steve hadn't had to bring her very far. It was on the other side of Brooklyn from her apartment in Bushwick, and she guessed that must have been why she had only encountered him once before. Their school had encompassed students from a large part of Brooklyn, and it was rare that she'd seen the same person twice.

"So why were you on Church Avenue?" Beatrice asked curiously, glancing at Steve in the mirror. Bucky burst out laughing, the sound rich and carefree in the dying light.

Steve, she noted, blushed quite easily: a light shade of pink colored his cheeks and neck as he averted his gaze, apparently fixated on something fascinating outside. "I…had business in the area," he mumbled. Bucky rolled his eyes, but there was something almost protective in the way he looked at Steve, like the smaller boy was his brother.

Beatrice thought back to the moments just before she'd fallen unconscious, before Steve had asked her if she was all right. There had been a loud slam against a nearby wall, and the ugly bruise under his eye looked fresh…but what had he been getting into a fight for in the first place? "Oh," was all she said, glancing out her own window; the snowbanks piled along the street were so bright that her eyes hurt just looking at them.

"Steve has no concept of the idea of a losing battle," Bucky said, a tight smile on his face. He met Beatrice's eyes very briefly, and there was no humor in them. She wondered if her appearance had been part of a greater argument. "Is this the orphanage?" he asked, changing tones so quickly that she was taken aback; she hadn't noticed they were already on Church Avenue. A large house that had obviously been built in the previous century stood on a street corner, its turrets and spires reaching up into the sky looking grand amidst the dull, industrial buildings that surrounded it. Yet it also seemed grim and forbidding somehow, like Dracula's castle—or perhaps that was just how Beatrice's mind interpreted it.

"Yes, it is," she said, although both Bucky's question and her answer had been unnecessary: the Brooklyn Home for Orphaned Children was the only one in the entire borough. Her heart quickening at the thought of seeing Henry again, she was out of the car and onto the sidewalk before she remembered Sarah's coat. Turning quizzically back to the car, she began to shrug it off her shoulders, already feeling the numbness in her fingers that she guessed was the beginning stages of frostbite—but that didn't matter; she had to find Henry, she just _had _to—but Steve had already rolled down his window and was shaking his head at her. "Keep it," he called to her. "It looks…very nice on you." And then he turned even redder than the tomatoes in Mrs. Banner's garden.

"Take care, doll," Bucky said, leaning across the seat to flash her a disarming grin. "Don't take a nap in an alleyway again, you hear?"

With some disappointment, Beatrice realized that they weren't going to join her. Of course…there was no reason for them to stay with her. They had helped her and driven her to where she'd said she wanted to go. She swallowed and tried to look confident as she thanked them one more time. "I promise I'll pay you back somehow," she told both of them earnestly, but looking especially at Steve. "Thank you so much—you saved my life, you honestly did."

"Anything I can do to help, ma'am," Steve said graciously.

"If I ever see you again, please call me Beatrice," she said, surprised herself at her own forwardness, before steeling herself and turning her back on the car. _Henry_, she thought doggedly, and refusing to think about where she would spend the night, she walked into the orphanage.

* * *

As soon as Beatrice disappeared, Steve leaned forward, his tone pleading. "We can't just leave her there, Buck."

Bucky glanced at Steve in the mirror, his face completely serious. "We're not," he said, and nodded to the passenger seat. "Get in."

Steve was clearly baffled, but obediently did as he was told, climbing into the seat that the dark-haired girl had just vacated. While Bucky waited for another car to pass, he explained, "I know Goldstein is the landlord of a building in Bushwick. If I can't talk any sense into him, you pick a fight, okay?" There was a faint smile on his face now as he grinned down at Steve, who was used to this dichotomy: Bucky often oscillated between being overly protective of him and making sly, offhand comments. As long as the situation was under Bucky's control, he was more relaxed. He often joked that he couldn't leave Steve alone for more than an hour or he would pick a fight with the person who swatted a fly. That was how it had always been: Steve started fights and Bucky finished them.

They drove in silence for about five minutes, the air heavy with unspoken words, until Bucky finally asked, "What the hell were you doing on Church Avenue, anyway?"

Steve looked out the window at the brownstone buildings flashing past, avoiding his best friend's gaze. "I was going to the cemetery," he said quietly; there was no need to elaborate on exactly who he was planning to visit. "But then I saw these guys crowding around an alley…when I got closer I saw that somebody was on the ground. They would probably have tried to rob her, or worse, so I intervened. I guess they didn't really care enough to stick around." When Bucky didn't reply right away, he added, a bit defensively, "What would you have done?"

"The same thing you did," Bucky admitted. "Still, you shoulda brought her to the hospital or something. Most gals don't appreciate waking up in a guy's apartment with no idea how they got there, even if he did save her life. Listen, if you were that desperate, you should have asked me for advice, pal! I think Connie's got a friend—" Now he was sounding like the old Bucky again.

"Bucky, stop," Steve said seriously. "It wasn't like that, and you know it. I would never do that to—"

Bucky sighed dramatically, pretending to be disappointed. They had entered Bushwick now, and the buildings were getting closer together, the people scruffier, the streets narrower. "I just worry about you, Steve," he admitted, his tone more serious than his expression. "Someday you're going to get caught up in something way over your head, and I'm not gonna be there to help."

Steve's mind flashed back to his mother's funeral the previous year and Bucky's declarationthat he would always be there for him. He was always grateful for the help, but eager to prove his worth by himself. Again he reiterated, "I can take care of myself."

"But it sure helps, doesn't it?" Bucky asked. Steve reluctantly nodded, and he clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Just keep that in mind." They were no longer speaking of Beatrice anymore. In a lower voice, he added, "We'll visit her soon. She was like a mom to me, too."

Steve smiled at him, unable to put his gratitude into words. More often than not, if he wasn't at home or getting beaten up, Bucky would find him in the cemetery next to his parents' graves. Neither boy ever commented on the ritual, but Bucky would always bring some food and they would spend the afternoon there, saying little but still spending time together. Steve knew that Bucky would much rather go dancing or see a movie, but he chose to spend the time with him instead.

Bucky pulled onto a side street and parked the car between two snowbanks in front of a low-rise, yellow-brick apartment complex that looked horribly rundown and about to collapse in on itself. Still, there was a park visible across the road and the building was surrounded by dense forest—not a terrible choice for working-class families. A rusted sign swinging in the wind read, _Goldstein's Apartments._

"How did you know this was here?" Steve asked as he climbed out of the car and onto the curb; one of Bucky's strides was equal to several of Steve's, and he was around the car before Steve was even on the sidewalk.

"My dad lets a few things slip after he has a rum." Bucky grinned slyly. "Good thing I pay attention."

A crowd of men was clustered around the side of the building, several holding buckets. As the two boys strode over to them, there was a break in the gathering and the bottom apartment was briefly visible—someone had broken the window with a hammer and water was gushing out in a steady stream.

"What happened here?" Bucky asked in his most authoritative voice; he could take charge when he wanted to, and none of the men questioned that he was at least twenty years younger than any of them. Steve tagged along behind him, already out of breath.

"Some idiot didn't install the proper protection and flooded the basement," a gruff older man explained, crossing his arms. "Now the entire foundation of the building is threatened. Luckily I was able to call some workers just in time—it'll be months before the place is inhabitable again."

"What about the previous tenants?" Bucky asked, pretending to have no knowledge of the situation. "What happened to them?"

"That is none of your busi—Barnes, what in the devil are you doing here?" Recognition dawned on Goldstein's face as he glared at Bucky. "I evicted your family a decade ago. Must be nice living up in Brooklyn Heights, isn't it? Happy you won the lawsuit?"

"Very," Bucky said pleasantly; while Goldstein got more and more worked up, he was infuriatingly calm. "But, if I remember correctly, it is your obligation as the landlord to find somewhere for the tenants to stay in the meantime."

Mr. Goldstein turned an ugly shade of puce. _"She _put you up to this, didn't she? Well, you can tell her that I won't find anywhere for her to live until she pays for the building's repairs."

"Why are you doing this?" Steve burst out, unable to contain himself any longer. "Why can't you help her?"

"Because her good-for-nothing father couldn't pay the damn rent, and it was a mistake to let that family live there for as long as they did," Goldstein snapped. "I should have evicted them once I learned they couldn't install the protection."

"Then you should have installed it yourself!" Steve argued. "If you knew that was going to happen and if you knew they couldn't pay for it—"

They had crossed a line; Goldstein took a threatening step towards them, brandishing a hammer. "She is not returning, and that is final. Now both of you get out of here before I call the authorities. And tell your friend that if I get my hands on her again, she'll be _very _sorry she crossed me."

"Come _on, _Steve," Bucky said in his ear, and forcibly dragged him away, gripping onto his shoulder tightly. Some of the men watching chuckled, which only served to fuel Steve's rage. By the time they got back to the car, the interior temperature had dropped rapidly, and their breaths came out as misty clouds.

"Well, that was a mistake," Bucky declared as he turned the ignition. "I'd forgotten what a piece of work he was."

Steve was still glaring in the direction of the apartment. "It was worth a try," he said. He had calmed down somewhat, but his face was still red. "I'm going to go to the police."

"And what are they going to do?" Bucky asked, logical as always. "They're not going to waste their time on one shady landlord. Besides, they might even decide that he's right and demand the money."

"Still, there has to be something to do," Steve muttered. He glanced sideways at his friend. "I didn't know Goldstein was once your landlord."

Bucky shrugged as he pulled back out onto the street. "It's not something I advertise. We didn't always live in Brooklyn Heights. How d'you think I met you? I would have gone to some fancy private school instead of George Washington. Once my dad was able to prove that we were unfairly evicted, he took it to court, and won a nice amount of money to put us in a better neighborhood."

"Then maybe Beatrice can do the same," Steve suggested, but Bucky shook his head.

"They only took my dad's case on because he'd lived in the area for years and had a family. They're not gonna listen to her, no matter who she knows." They lapsed into silence again, until Steve spoke up.

"Buck, you know, she has nowhere to go, and I have a spare bedroom…" Steve trailed off hesitantly, meeting Bucky's eyes, who grinned. "Are you asking my permission?"

Steve sighed heavily. "No, of course not. I was asking your opinion on it. I wouldn't ask her to pay rent or anything—just until she finds somewhere else to stay."

"I knew you'd do something like this, Rogers." Bucky gave the ghost of a grin. "Hey, if you live on your own with a girl, I'm not gonna complain. Besides, she seems harmless enough."

"Well," Steve said as he glanced at a lonely string of lights strung up on a passing tree, "It is Christmas Eve."

* * *

The second she walked into the orphanage, Beatrice was met with a cacophony of cries, shouts, and laughter. She stood, stunned, in the doorway while a small boy slid down the railing of the steep staircase directly in front of her, whooping with joy. Seeming not to notice her, he landed lithely on his feet and disappeared into an adjacent room still giggling madly.

She let the front door swing shut behind her, unable to help herself from peering through the frosted glass panes as she did—Bucky's car was already gone. God, she hadn't thanked them properly, had she? How was one supposed to thank someone who had saved their life? Before she could mull over that question, a frazzled, raven-haired woman came hurrying down the stairs, calling, "Adam!" in a frustrated tone. She came screeching to a halt once she saw Beatrice, who pointed wordlessly at the door through which the boy had disappeared.

"Thank you very much, ma'am. The reception is right that way," she explained, pointing down a nearly-concealed hallway next to the stairs. "But I'm afraid you'll have to come back tomorrow. We closed an hour ago."

Beatrice's heart sank right down to her feet. "Please, this is important," she said, taking a step forward. "I'm looking for my brother. He was brought here by mistake earlier today—"

"I promise if you come back tomorrow, we'll be able to look into the situation," the woman explained. "I am just a maid here and am not authorized to speak about any residents."

"Just please tell me—was an infant admitted into here? A boy around six months old with red hair and green eyes—his name is Henry Hartley," Beatrice begged, not caring anymore how desperate she sounded. All she wanted was to see her brother again and hold him in her arms, knowing they were both alive and safe.

"Ma'am, I cannot—" the maid explained, injecting a bit of harshness in her tone this time, but not before another voice interrupted her.

"Beatrice Hartley?" someone asked from behind her. Beatrice spun around and came face-to-face with Mrs. Banner. The older woman did not look pleased to see her. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm trying to find Henry," Beatrice said; out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the maid disappear into the other room, but there was nothing she could do about it. "Please tell me what happened to him."

"He was adopted not an hour after I brought him here, I'm told," Mrs. Banner said. Beatrice's heart stopped beating in horror. "Don't worry; the man who took him was very kind and promised he would give him a good home. He was asking about you, too, but I'm afraid I told him I had no idea of your whereabouts."

"What was his name?" Beatrice asked desperately. "Did he say where he lived?"

"He said his name was Ivan. As for where he went, I have no idea. It was none of my business," Mrs. Banner said, regarding her with a disapproving stare. "At least you're wearing a coat now. You don't look so well—I'll bring you to the hospital."

"No, I don't need the hospital," Beatrice insisted, fighting not to let her voice rise up into hysteria. "You don't understand—I need Henry."

"Come with me," was all Mrs. Banner said, and with her heart flip-flopping between anger, dejection, and panic, Beatrice had nothing else to do but numbly follow her back outside, feeling angry tears prick at her eyes. She knew the woman had no malicious intent, but it was difficult to think rationally when she was in so much turmoil.

"Are you sure there's nothing you can tell me about them?" she asked desperately as they stepped back out onto the snowy street. The first stars had begun to appear in the clear, dark sky, and the weather was much calmer than it had been the previous night. Unfortunately, Beatrice couldn't appreciate any of it.

"Not any more than I already have," Mrs. Banner said. "I understand your desperation to find your brother, but you are in no position to look after an infant at the moment."

"But he's _family—"_

"Where would you live?" Mrs. Banner asked, and Beatrice had no answer. She hated the knowing glint in the old woman's eyes. As much as she loathed to admit it, Mrs. Banner was right.

"Try getting everything sorted out before you search for him," Mrs. Banner added, with slightly more kindness in her voice. "Besides, I have every confidence that he is being well taken care of."

"How do you know?"

"He said he was your uncle."

Beatrice stopped walking, staring in disbelief at her. _I don't have an uncle, _she wanted to say, but stopped short when she realized that wasn't entirely true. Elena had had a brother, but rarely mentioned him and Beatrice had assumed they'd had a falling-out. She knew nothing about him, not even his name. So why was he in New York? How had he known to find Henry at the orphanage, and why hadn't he shown himself before? Most important, where was he?

"Ivan? His name is Ivan?" Beatrice asked—that was more than her mother had ever told her.

Mrs. Banner nodded. "That is what he told me—I believe he was Russian. He looked exactly like your mother, with red hair and green eyes. He was her perfect twin—that is part of the reason why I gave him up so quickly. Unfortunately, he gave no contact address for you to reach him."

Before Beatrice could answer, a car pulled up beside them, its headlights illuminating the entire street. When the passenger door opened, she felt a strange mixture of excitement and relief as Steve climbed out and walked over toward her, his hands in his pockets and a smile on his face, while Bucky got out of the driver's seat and sauntered towards them.

"Hello, Beatrice," Steve said; his smile was every bit as bright as the headlights on the car. "Ma'am," he acknowledged Mrs. Banner, who looked taken aback. "Did you have any luck finding your brother?"

Beatrice shook her head. "I'm told that he was adopted by my uncle—but I don't know where he is now, you see. I'm a bit lost. What are you doing here?"

"My dad would disown me if he found out that I left his old friend's daughter with nowhere to go," Bucky jumped in, with a wicked grin. Beatrice had the feeling that wasn't his only motive.

"Actually, I came back to ask you…I know you have nowhere to go, and I wanted to say that you can stay at my apartment, if you want. Until you find somewhere else to live." Steve was stammering a bit—clearly he wasn't used to asking women such things. "You wouldn't have to pay rent or anything."

And, looking at him and Bucky in the lamplight, Beatrice had never wanted to hug anyone more in her life. If she had somewhere to stay, she could get a job and save up money—get her life sorted out, as Mrs. Banner had advised—and then look for her uncle. Of course, that didn't stop her from searching for him sooner than that.

"Dear, this is quite abrupt," Mrs. Banner said. "Who are these men?"

"She's with us," Bucky replied, his voice ringing loud and clear in the cold winter air. Beatrice met his eyes, and he gave her quite possibly the most genuine smile that she'd seen from him yet.

Mrs. Banner adjusted her glasses and looked sternly over at her. "Is this true, Miss Hartley?"

And despite herself, for the first time since her mother died, Beatrice felt the beginnings of something like hope. "Yes," she said. "Yes, it is."


	4. IV

**I've added two extra scenes onto the end of Chapter 3 in case anyone wants to go back and read them! **

**As always, reviews are welcomed. :)**

* * *

For as long as Beatrice could remember, the world had always been eerily quiet on Christmas morning. There were no shouting voices or car horns in the streets, no noise except for the carolers who would come and go in steady streams throughout the day. This Christmas morning—her first Christmas away from home—was no exception. As she lay in Sarah Rogers's bed with the blankets pulled tightly over her and her face turned to the window, she could hear nothing except for the distant chime of church bells.

Despite Steve's assertion that she could stay for as long as she wanted, Beatrice still couldn't help but feel like an intruder. She was alone and desperate, with no choice but to either starve on the streets or accept help. After giving Mrs. Banner Steve's address in case her uncle Ivan wanted to find her, she had gotten into the car and Bucky had dropped them both off at Steve's apartment. Beatrice had been so exhausted and overwhelmed from the events of the day that she had fallen into bed right away, her sleep deep and dreamless. The second she had opened her eyes, however, all of her anxiety had rushed straight back. Staying in a near-stranger's apartment was one thing—though they'd agreed they would pretend to be cousins if anyone asked—but not knowing whether Henry was in good hands was another. Mrs. Banner seemed confident that Ivan was a decent man, but Beatrice wondered if her mother's silence about him had been more telling than she knew. If they'd had a good relationship, why had she never mentioned him?

She dragged her hand through her hair and slowly climbed out of bed, her bare toes curling at the feel of the cold floor under them. Beatrice drifted over to the window and rested her forehead against the glass, drawing shapes lightly on the glass with her fingertips. When she breathed on them they frosted up again. For a moment, when she shifted her gaze, she saw her pale, freckled reflection—all wide hazel eyes and dark auburn hair tumbling down her back, blending in with her white nightgown: not her own, of course. Steve had told her that she was welcome to borrow any of Sarah's clothes, and sure enough, Beatrice had found nearly an entire wardrobe still hanging up in the closet. Still, she knew she would have to buy her own clothes soon; she couldn't accept _everything _that Steve offered. He had been kind enough as it was.

On the street below, Beatrice watched a black car pull up and a man dressed in military uniform appeared from the driver's seat. She could see that he was clutching a letter in his hand as he walked up to the row of apartments opposite and knocked on one of the doors. It was barely a second before the door opened and a beautiful blonde young woman who couldn't be any older than Beatrice opened it, still in her nightclothes. The man held out the letter and said something to her, and the woman's stunning face crumpled into one of horror. Her face dropped into her hands, and Beatrice had to turn away from the private moment. Doubtless she had received a letter that her sweetheart had been killed in action, and on Christmas Day, no less.

Beatrice felt a rush of relief that Henry was far too young to be caught up in the war, and then hated herself for her own selfishness. The soldiers in Europe would not be safe in a warm bedroom and listening to church bells. _Stop pitying yourself, _Beatrice thought sharply, walking over to the closet to find a dress. Her father had fought in a war, and it had cost him his sanity. Beatrice couldn't think of a fate much worse than that.

She selected a mossy green dress from the wardrobe, hoping it was festive enough, and was just buttoning the collar when she became aware that an acrid scent was quickly filling up the room. Her mind immediately jumped to a fire—what a cruel irony it would be if she was driven out by a flood one day and a fire the next—but when she darted out of the bedroom and down the hallway to the kitchen, she found Steve standing in front of the stove, a tower of smoke pouring out of the pan he was holding. Beatrice ran to the sink and grabbed the nearest glass, filling it to the brim with water before dumping it over the burner. Orange flame was already beginning to lick the sides of the pan, and as Steve jerked his hands away she saw that his fingertips were burned.

"Give me your hands," Beatrice commanded, throwing aside propriety for the moment. John had once stumbled and fallen into the fireplace after drinking too much, and while Steve's hands weren't nearly as bad as her father's had been, she knew how to take care of burns. He obediently held them out to her, and she took both of his wrists in hers—they were sharp and bony, the tips digging into her palm—and held them under the faucet while leaning over to grab a cloth from the edge of the sink. She methodically wrapped it around his hands, binding them together like handcuffs.

"Does it hurt?" she asked him. They were standing very close together, so close that Beatrice could feel Steve's waist pressing against the side of her hip. She had never been so close to a boy before who was unrelated to her, and the moment was not as earth-shattering as she would have expected.

Steve shrugged. "I've had worse."

"That didn't answer my question," Beatrice said pointedly. She turned off the faucet and threw the towel in the pool of soapy water that had collected at the bottom of the sink. "Are you in pain?"

"Not really," Steve said. Beatrice raised an eyebrow, and he sheepishly relented. "A bit. It's nothing time won't fix."

"And honey," she added. "Do you have any around here?"

"Yes, there's some in the cupboard," Steve replied. He was looking at her as if he wasn't quite sure that she was mentally all there, but thankfully he kept silent. Beatrice strode across the kitchen and opened the cupboard; there were a few (old, judging by the looks of them) spices scattered amidst larger piles of dust, but Beatrice spotted a jar of half-used honey on the very top shelf. She had to stand on her tiptoes to reach it, but finally managed to knock it down and caught it deftly in one hand. Steve watched her bemusedly as she slid the jar across the table to him. He had already somehow untied the knot in the cloth without her noticing, and Beatrice snatched it up and went to wash it in the sink. Steve, bless him, had taken the honey without asking any further questions and was rubbing it on his fingertips. "This does work," he exclaimed, rather more surprised than was strictly necessary in Beatrice's opinion. "I'll have to remember that for next time."

And Beatrice already knew there would most certainly be a _next time. _She'd barely known him for twenty-four hours and the boy got into more scrapes than she had believed any normal human was capable of. "And put some arnica on your bruises," she added. "It'll make the swelling go down faster."

"Thanks." Steve grinned sheepishly at her, rubbing the tips of his singed hair. "My mom would have loved you. She was always going on about using natural remedies instead of medicine." He stopped, looking lost for a moment, like a young boy, and then seemed to shake himself out of it before Beatrice could break the sudden silence. "How did you know to use honey? I never woulda guessed _that_."

"I learned to be creative from a very young age." Beatrice tried not to grimace. "My dad would often become injured and was unable to take care of himself. My mom used to say that I should become a nurse, but…" Now it was her turn to trail off, unsure how to phrase the explanation. After Lloyd's Dental closed, she had made plans to go overseas and was even about to hand in her volunteer form when Elena had become pregnant again. So she had stayed in New York to protect her mother and her unborn sibling from John's drunken rages. Of course, that hadn't lasted long: Elena had gone into labor very early. Beatrice remembered coming home one beautiful summer day and seeing her mother lying prone on the bed, surrounded by a pool of blood and her eyes open and glassy. She had found John as well, six months later, the morning after one of his nights at the bar. Alcohol poisoning, the coroner had told her. It was nobody's fault but his own. The memories of her parents lying dead in front of her had made Beatrice wake up screaming countless times. She just prayed Steve wouldn't hear her. "Well. It just didn't work out, I guess," she added lamely. "Where there's a will, there's a way, right?"

Steve was looking at her with something almost like understanding in his eyes. "I believe it," he said, with more fire in his voice than Beatrice was expecting. "The trouble is getting everyone else convinced of that."

Beatrice had the feeling he was no longer talking about her, and wondered if it had something to do with Steve's desire to become a soldier. But instead of asking him, she turned to the burnt pan and said, "I'm afraid to ask what you were trying to accomplish here, aside from testing the smoke alarms."

He grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I was _trying _to make bacon and eggs, since it's Christmas, but it didn't quite turn out. Bucky's a much better cook than me."

"Well, I think it's still edible," Beatrice said, peering inside the pan. She wasn't entirely convinced of this, since the eggs were more brown than white and the bacon was little more than burnt crisps, but it had suddenly come to her attention that she was so hungry she would eat almost anything. Steve already had two plates lined up next to the stove, and she divided the food up equally before sitting down at the table and attacking it. Beatrice wolfed it down so quickly she couldn't even tell what it tasted like, finishing her breakfast twice as fast as Steve. She only realized later she must have looked like a slob, but thankfully Steve didn't seem to mind.

"I'm going over to Bucky's place tonight for dinner," he said, slowly pushing his eggs around on the plate. "He said that you're welcome to come along, and his dad wants to meet you, but if you don't want to..."

Beatrice was momentarily blindsided by the notion that Steve would allow her to stay in his apartment by herself. His inherent trust made her feel unworthy of it. Perhaps a deity had been actively trying to _control _her life rather than wreaking havoc on it; how else would she have been lucky enough to find the boys at this precise time? She almost denied Steve's offer on the basis that she didn't want to intrude on the Barnes family, but the word, "Yes," was out of her mouth before she had time to really consider it. She liked Steve, she supposed she liked Bucky, and the thought of having a real Christmas dinner, with turkey and stuffing and gravy, made her mouth water at the very thought. "I would love to."

Steve's face broke out into a wide smile. "Great," he said. "You don't have to wear anything formal. I know Mom had some nice dresses, but it's up to you whether you want to wear one or not. Bucky'll be here around five o'clock."

Beatrice nodded, although she made a mental note to take a bath before they left; her hair was impossibly messy. "I promise to get some new clothes," she told him. "I don't want you to think I'm taking advantage of your hospitality."

"I promise you aren't." Steve looked mournfully at his uneaten food, pushing the plate away. "That wasn't very good, was it?"

"I didn't mind it at all," Beatrice said truthfully. She stood up and gathered both of their plates before going to the sink to wash them. She was so used to being the mother for John and Henry that it was by now second nature for her to act as the role of housekeeper for everyone. But Steve gently caught her by the wrist, pulling her away from the counter.

"You don't need to do anything around the apartment, unless you really can't stand the mess," he admitted. "I can do all of this on my own, no problem."

"Steve, you're letting a girl you barely know stay here without paying any rent," Beatrice said, half-amused, half-aghast. "The least I can do is help out here and there."

"Listen," he said in a low voice, "I know what it feels like to have no one. I was almost in your position. After my mom died, I thought I would lose the apartment. But…but Bucky helped out with the rent and stuff. I wouldn't have been able to make it if it wasn't for him. I have a spare room, and you have nowhere else to go."

So this was the truth: he was only being kind to her out of pity. Beatrice glanced away from him, more disappointed than she thought she'd be. "Thank you," was all she said.

Steve smiled at her, as radiant as the sun. "Now I'd better give you a key. I know I have a spare around here somewhere—Bucky has one too, but in case you ever lose it, there's an extra under the brick by the front door."

Beatrice couldn't think of a response that properly encompassed the overwhelming gratitude and relief she felt. After her mother had died, she had been lost and directionless, as if she was a boat that had suddenly lost its bearings at sea. Now, even despite the loss of Henry, she was beginning to feel like she was getting her bearings back. There was something so undeniably _true _about Steve that Beatrice had trusted him almost immediately. Whether or not he merely felt sorry for her, she knew she owed him her life, and she would be lying dead in that alley if it wasn't for him.

"I'll go see if I can find the key," Steve was saying, and promptly disappeared; he moved surprisingly fast. Her curiosity awakened, Beatrice followed him out of the kitchen and into the hallway. "I left it in my room," he called, and Beatrice saw that he was already inside his bedroom. Her mouth went uncomfortably dry—she had never been in a boy's room before.

Beatrice hovered awkwardly in the doorway, unsure where to stand. Steve had opened his curtains so that dull gray light shone inside, pooling onto the floor. It was horribly messy—the bedsheets were thrown back and in disarray; the bookshelves were stuffed full to the brim and there were even stacks of them on the floor, and the desk was covered in papers and splattered with paint. Steve was scattering the papers even more as he searched for the key. He seemed completely unabashed that his room looked like a tornado had just passed through it.

"Do you paint?" Beatrice asked despite herself; she took a step forward to get a better look, but Steve had already shuffled the papers aside.

"Yes," he said, the tips of his ears turning pink. "When I can afford it—they were a Christmas present from Mom a few years back, but I prefer sketching. I've drawn for a couple comic books at the studio in Manhattan. The pay's not bad."

"Comic books, huh?" Beatrice asked. Feeling braver, she took another step into the room. "You must be very talented."

"I don't think so," Steve said, straightening up with a pile of papers in his arms. "I think the guy just feels sorry for me." He held them out to Beatrice. "Do you mind holding these? The paint is still wet and I don't want to spill it."

"Of course," she said, carefully gathering them up. The one on top showed the view from the front balcony of Steve's apartment, drawn down to the clothes hanging in the breeze and the distant view of the bridge and city beyond. It was as perfectly detailed as the ones Beatrice saw for sale in shop windows. "Oh, I don't think anyone would let you work for them just out of pity," she said, slightly in awe. At the bottom corner was Steve's scribbled signature, with two lines of poetry above it. Beatrice brought the paper closer to her face so she could see it:

_Whate'er is Born of Mortal Birth_

_Must be consumed with the Earth_

"William Blake?" she asked, glancing back up and smiling slightly at Steve's flustered demeanor. "I take it you're a fan of poetry, then?"

Now he looked embarrassed. "I guess," he said awkwardly. "I just—I was looking out the window one day, and I thought about all the people who live around here, and how no matter how much money you have or how powerful you are, whether or not you're the mayor or just a little guy like me, we're all going to die eventually."

Beatrice wasn't sure how to react. "That sounds very…cheerful."

Steve seemed to realize he had said too much, and immediately shut up like a clam. He turned back to his searching. Beatrice was embarrassed; _she _had said the wrong thing. "Steve—" she began, not even sure herself why she had such a desire to comfort him, but he had already let out a sound of triumph and stood up, a rusted key clutched in his palm.

"I knew it was around here somewhere," he announced. "And I found this!" He held out a necklace on a fine gold chain. There was a heart in the middle made of what looked like a ruby, and sparkling in the light it seemed as if it was actually beating.

"That's beautiful," Beatrice breathed. But why hadn't he sold it? It would pay his rent for at least half a year.

"It was a wedding gift from Dad to Mom," Steve explained, looking at it thoughtfully. "She wore it until the day she died. I knew it could fetch a lot, but I wanted to keep it. Something tells me I would get beaten up if _I_ wore it." He gave Beatrice a crooked smile before slipping it into his pocket. "Now, did you have any plans in mind for today?"

Beatrice closed her fingers around the key, feeling the serrated edges press into her skin like the touch of a knife. "I was going to go to the library and look in the archives for my uncle," she admitted ruefully. "But I guess that'll have to wait until tomorrow."

Now Steve's grin grew even wider. "No, it doesn't," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"Follow me," he instructed, and nearly ran out of the room. Beatrice groaned and went to the closet to fetch her coat. She wondered how on earth Bucky kept him in line.

* * *

The day was cold and windy, but at least it wasn't snowing. Beatrice's hair whipped around her face as she followed Steve down the street, passing a group of jovial carolers as they did. She felt like the little match girl, and studiously avoided glancing into alleyways. Houses were lit up inside, their lights golden and warm, and Christmas trees were visible through the curtains. The war obviously hadn't stopped many people from enjoying the holidays.

Steve moved as quickly as a ghost through the crowds of people leaving church and children having snowball fights; Beatrice narrowly avoided getting hit in the head by a rogue pile of snow. She brought her hands up to her cheeks; they were rosy and cold, but there was only a faint tingling in her fingers and toes, nothing at all like the numbness of the previous day. "Steve, where were we going?" she called out to him after ten minutes, but her cry was lost on the howling wind. He seemed to hear her, though, and just called back, "You'll see!"

Beatrice was beginning to feel very envious of the people who walked past them carrying mugs of hot chocolate, when the tall spires of the public library became visible in the distance. Steve didn't go to the front doors, however; he crept around the side of the building instead. Beatrice hesitantly followed him, going from bemused to incredulous when he knelt down in front of a basement window and gently pried it open with his fingers.

"What are you _doing?"_ she hissed, glancing around to see if there were any witnesses. "You can't—"

"Actually," Steve replied, squeezing himself through the tiny gap and disappearing into the darkness beyond, "I can." When Beatrice refused to move, he called up to her, "Come on! I've been doing this for years and I've never been caught. Besides, we're not taking anything."

A day ago, Beatrice would never have believed him, but in her desperation to find Henry she was willing to try anything, and so she knelt down and, bending her legs, slid down through the opening where the window had previously been.

After a long second of nothingness, her feet found ground, and she stumbled a few steps forward before she felt Steve grab her by the elbows to steady her. "Are you all right?" he asked, his voice sounding oddly constricted, and Beatrice nodded before realizing he couldn't see her. At least he couldn't see her blush.

"I'm fine," she confirmed. It was much warmer in here than outside, and very humid. The air had a very musty, damp quality, and yet again she wondered what she had gotten herself into.

"The light is over here somewhere," Steve's voice said, now drifting farther away. "I just have to climb up on this table to reach it." Beatrice waited with bated breath—until there was an almighty crash from somewhere in front of her just as the room flooded with light.

"Steve! Are you all right?" she exclaimed, blinking furiously so that her eyes would adjust more quickly. They were standing in a long room that must have spanned the entire basement of the library, filing cabinets pressed up against every available inch of wall space. Steve was sitting on top of an overturned table, while a dim lightbulb swung on the ceiling.

"I'm fine," Steve said, taking the hand Beatrice offered as she pulled him up. "I misjudged where the edge of that table was."

"Remember, use honey for bruises," Beatrice said doubtfully as Steve wiped the dirt off his jacket. With their combined strength (which, admittedly, wasn't very much) they managed to right the table so that it looked untouched, save for the clouds of debris that had puffed up. Beatrice sneezed violently as she inhaled a cloud of dust.

"Now, if your uncle ever lived in New York, there should be some sort of file about him," Steve, who apparently had a remarkable ability to recover quickly, was saying as he walked over to the file cabinets. "Birth announcements, wedding announcements…"

Beatrice couldn't believe that they were breaking into Brooklyn's archives, but Steve actually looked as if he was enjoying himself. She wondered what Bucky would think about that. "My mother was born here," she told him. "I would guess that my uncle was as well."

"What did you say his name was again?"

"Ivan," Beatrice answered. "I think it would have been Ivan Romanov." She was about to move to the "R" section when her eyes caught on the "H" cabinet. She had never considered looking in the archives for more information on her family before, and, stealing a glance at Steve, who was otherwise preoccupied, moved toward them.

There was an enormous stack of folders in the drawer, luckily sorted in alphabetical order—Beatrice sent a quick message of thanks to whoever's job it was to keep the archives organized—and thumbed through the countless obituaries, birth announcements, old newspapers…there were records in Brooklyn dating back to the eighteenth century. Her heart immediately began to pound quicker when she saw the name _Hartley. _

It was a newspaper clipping from 1920. _Mr. and Mrs. John Hartley of Bushwick welcomed a daughter, Beatrice Rose, at 10:23 AM yesterday, March twenty-third. Mr. Hartley previously served in the 105__th__ Infantry during the Great War, and currently works at the Navy Yard along with his fellow soldier, Mr. George Barnes, also of Brooklyn. Mrs. Elena Hartley (born Romanova) has been a seamstress in the area for many years. _

Beatrice read over the clipping several times, an odd feeling squeezing her chest that felt something like grief. To dissipate it, she called over to Steve, "Is Bucky's father named George?"

"Yes," Steve replied. He waved another piece of paper at her. "I can't find anything on Ivan, but I do think I found where he works."

Beatrice nearly tripped over the table in her rush to cross the room. Sure enough, there was an article detailing the opening of Stark Industries three years beforehand, and that Howard Stark started with a team including Russian strategist Ivan Romanov. "Strategist?" she asked, smoothing her thumb over the paper. "What does that mean?"

"Spy," Steve said, his lips in a narrow, almost disapproving line. Beatrice was astonished. She couldn't imagine any of her family members doing such a thing—but then again, it might explain why Elena never spoke about him.

"So a spy adopted my brother?" she wailed.

"Calm down," Steve told her soothingly. "According to this, he works for Howard Stark—he's a brilliant inventor. At least this means he's probably living right here in New York."

"Then we'll have to go into the city and find him," Beatrice said resolutely.

"There's a fireworks display on top of the Stark Industries building every New Year's Eve," Steve said mildly. "That way we'll have a few days to plan what we're going to do—" He doubled over and broke into a coughing fit before he could finish, bits of dust landing in his hair and turning it almost white.

"Steve?" Beatrice asked cautiously, placing a hand on his shoulder. When he straightened up, he was paler than usual and appeared to be struggling to breathe.

"I'm fine," he said firmly. "The air in here is just triggering my asthma. This happens all the time."

"Then we'll get back outside," Beatrice said just as firmly, and after careful deliberation, folded up her birth announcement and slipped it inside her pocket. She would copy it onto a separate paper and return it back to the archives as soon as possible.

But as she walked towards the window and wondered how she was going to get back outside, Steve's voice sounded from the other end of the room. His small frame was illuminated in a tiny sliver of light in front of a previously-unseen door. "Where are you going?" he called. "The exit is this way!"

Beatrice's lips curved up into an unwilling grin as she went to follow him.

* * *

The park across from her old apartment was deserted, save for a few brave squirrels scrounging for food. Beatrice sat on the swings, dragging her feet through the snow. She wasn't exactly certain why she'd decided to come here, but she felt almost as if she needed to tell her home a proper goodbye before she left for good. Steve hadn't questioned why she'd wanted to go back; he seemed to have guessed that she needed to be alone. He'd just made sure she was warm enough and that she knew her way back to Flatbush before he'd gone his own way. Beatrice had watched him disappear, his blond head held high, and mused that she couldn't have found a better roommate. Out of all the boys she had ever met, she had never seen one as decent as Steve Rogers.

She wasn't worried about freezing now that she had a coat and somewhere to go. The building looked exactly the same as it had for two decades; a stranger would never have guessed that the basement had been flooded. There weren't many people celebrating inside, she guessed—the unlucky ones still had to work. Beatrice leaned her cheek against the cold metal of the swing. She didn't mind being cold, not really—it was when she had nothing she could do about it that she hated.

Leaning back slightly, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the slip of paper, mouthing along as she read it yet another time. Since John had been a veteran, he'd obviously been deemed important enough for his daughter's birth to be documented in the local newspaper. Beatrice thought of her uncle, working at Stark Industries. Maybe he'd been moving back and forth between Russia and the United States gathering intelligence. It sounded quite exciting, unless he was a triple agent and was really sympathetic towards Russia. Again, why had he wanted to adopt Henry, and why had he been asking about her? Beatrice tried to tell herself that all her questions would be answered when she went to his workplace. Hopefully she would be able to obtain his address and visit him herself.

"Beatrice Hartley," she heard someone say from behind her. Beatrice hurriedly stuffed the paper back into her pocket before jumping off the swings and whirling around. Mrs. Banner stood there, dressed in a thick shawl and with her trusty cane in a gnarled hand. She went on a walk every day, whether or not it was a holiday. Beatrice knew she had a son, but that they weren't close enough to be spending the day together.

"Mrs. Banner," she said with a resigned sigh. It figured she had to show up out of nowhere again. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas to you too, child," the woman said, hobbling closer to her. Beatrice worried she might slip and fall on the ice. "I take it you're doing well with your…friend?"

"My cousin, actually," Beatrice said lamely. Mrs. Banner evidently wasn't convinced, but decided not to press the point. "I just wanted to come back here to…to…" She flailed around for something to say. Why _had _she come back here?

"I wouldn't be around here if I were you," Mrs. Banner warned. "Goldstein is very angry. He threatened to call the police if he ever saw you or your friends again."

"Hang on," Beatrice said, suppressing a stab of fear in her threat. "My _friends?"_

Mrs. Banner nodded. "The ones you went with. They came here yesterday to try to convince him to allow you back into the apartment, but he refused."

Beatrice opened her mouth and closed it again, unable to form proper words. Steve and Bucky had driven all the way out here to convince Goldstein to let her live in the apartment again? Despite the chill in the air, her entire body suddenly felt warm, and she was amazed at the gesture of kindness from two boys she barely knew. She didn't care that they weren't successful. Suddenly, she didn't want to sit in the park wallowing in memories. She wanted to see them again and thank them for what they had done. She swallowed back the lump in her throat and said, "Mrs. Banner, if you ever see Goldstein again, tell him…tell him I'm not coming back. I owe you an apology, too. I know you were just doing what was best for Henry."

Mrs. Banner almost smiled. "Will you come around for tea sometime?"

"Of course," Beatrice told her. She felt as if she was hovering on the cusp of something bigger than herself, and no matter what she did she was going to fall into it. Again she heard the comforting chime of distant church bells, and now smiled as brightly as she could.


	5. V

**Sorry for the long wait! I'm working on separate Steve/OC and Bucky/OC stories as well as this one. I just can't seem to stop at one Marvel fanfic! ;)**

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When Beatrice arrived back at her new apartment—_home_, she tried to tell herself—ice crystals had burrowed themselves in her hair and clothes, refusing to melt, and she was looking forward to a warm bath and a cup of steaming tea. It was nearing four o'clock, so she had just over an hour to get ready before Bucky arrived.

As she untied her scarf and walked into the kitchen, she saw that a mug of tea was already waiting for her, and there was still some hot water left in the kettle. Steve must have gone out of his way to specially make one for her, knowing she would be cold when she arrived. Beatrice felt her heart swell in gratitude as she wrapped her hands around the mug, breathing in its warmth. She cast a quick glance around the kitchen, noting areas that she could clean and utensils she could sort. Whatever Steve said otherwise, she had to repay him for everything he had done.

But by the time she had finished her tea and rinsed out her mug, Steve was still nowhere in sight. Beatrice even poked her head inside his bedroom to see if he was asleep, but it was empty. Perhaps he had gone out for the afternoon—at least that gave her enough time to get ready and clean up the kitchen as a surprise before he arrived.

She ducked into her room to grab a towel, wrapping it around her shoulders before heading back down the hallway to the bathroom. The door was slightly ajar, and as she pushed it open a cloud of steam hit her, but the realization didn't fully sink in until she saw Steve already sitting in the bathtub, his clothes neatly folded on the counter.

Beatrice nearly dropped her towel in shock, her hand flying to her mouth as all the blood in her body rushed to her face. She stumbled backwards, and Steve turned around, immediately turning just as red as her. "I'm so sorry," Beatrice choked out, feeling sweat already dripping down her neck, and it wasn't just from the humidity. "The door was open and I—" She knew she should avert her eyes, but she was too flustered to speak properly. "I'll just—go…" she stammered, and slipped out of the bathroom before Steve could say anything, closing the door properly behind her. Her heart was hammering so hard that little spots of light were blinking in front of her eyes. In her rush to remove herself as far away from the situation as possible, she walked into the living-room, pressing her hands over her eyes.

Beatrice had never been so mortified in her life. She sat down heavily on the couch and wiped her face with the towel, trying furtively to calm down. She kept replaying the scene over in her head—although exactly _why _she wasn't entirely certain—and chided herself for not realizing that Steve was there beforehand. She should have called him before barging into the bathroom like she owned the place and wasn't just living there on borrowed time. Maybe the door _had _been closed and she just hadn't noticed.

But even through her embarrassment, Beatrice couldn't deny that seeing him had given her a strange sort of thrill—the sight hadn't been entirely unpleasant to her. She wondered if this was a normal reaction for all girls, or if she was just an anomaly. God, how would she ever face Steve after this? She wouldn't blame him if he threw her out right then and there.

The sound of a key rattling in the front door made her look up. Steve still hadn't emerged out of the bathroom. Beatrice sat up straighter and crossed her fingers that it was Bucky and not a burglar who had found the poorly hidden key. She immediately searched the room for anything she could use as a weapon, and came up with nothing except for a picture frame on the table that depicted Steve as a young child, standing in what Beatrice recognized as Central Park and throwing bread to the ducks. His hair was ruffled in the breeze and there was a wide smile on his face. It had to be around the time she had first encountered him.

Beatrice didn't want to destroy such a nice picture, but when it came down to that or death, she wasn't about to choose the latter. She snatched it up and held it protectively against her chest just as the door swung open. Beatrice lifted her arm to throw it just as Bucky strode into the room, his expression instantly going from jovial to bemused when he spotted her. He stopped mid-whistle and raised an eyebrow at her odd stance.

"Hey, hey, I'm not gonna take that picture from you," he said, raising his arms up in mock surrender. "I know it's real nice."

"Oh, _God," _Beatrice groaned. She set the frame back on the table and collapsed onto the couch, resting her elbows on her knees and burying her face in her hands. How many more times could she make a fool of herself before she dug her own grave?

She didn't move even when she felt someone sit down beside her and put a light hand on her shoulder. "What's the matter, doll?" Bucky asked in an easygoing tone of voice, which thankfully eased some of her worry. "Steve invited too many girls over again?"

Beatrice didn't want to laugh, but she couldn't help herself, and snorted in a very unbecoming fashion. She raised her hand and peeked between her fingers at Bucky, who wore an easy smile. "How long will it take Steve to order me out of the apartment?" she asked.

Now he looked even more confused. "I don't think he would order anyone out of his apartment unless they were committing murder or something." He grinned crookedly. "Why? You got a dark side?"

Beatrice was about to answer when Steve rushed into the room, fully dressed but with still-damp hair. "Beatrice, please don't apologize, it was my fault," he said, taking in her slumped posture and Bucky's hand on her shoulder. "I'm not used to having guests and I completely forgot to lock the door."

"No, Steve, I should have knocked," Beatrice was quick to say. "Don't blame yourself." She felt her face go bright red again at the memory.

Bucky was glancing back and forth between the two of them. When Steve agitatedly ran his hand through his wet hair, he seemed to make the connection, and looked incredulous for a long second before breaking out into laughter. "That's one way to charm the girls, pal," he said, standing up and crossing the room to clap Steve on the shoulder. "I swear you get yourself into the strangest of situations on purpose."

Beatrice wished she could find the situation as amusing as he did. While Steve mumbled something under his breath and shuffled his feet, she asked, "When should I pack?"

"Pack?" Steve asked; he was looking at a spot just over her head. "Why would you do that?"

"I've done nothing but bring trouble for you," Beatrice said resignedly. She hoped she could still have Christmas dinner, but didn't want to ask.

"Beatrice, no—you're not going anywhere unless you want to," Steve said, sounding shocked. "This isn't a conditional offer."

"Don't worry about Steve here kicking you out," Bucky told her, still chuckling. "You are _cousins_, you know. In fact, I'd say it was the most excitement he's had in ages."

"_Bucky," _Steve said, now sounding exasperated.

Bucky pretended not to hear him, and instead gestured to the door. "Now, are you done your tragic play? Ma will skin me alive if I'm late for dinner."

"You mean I'm still invited?" Beatrice asked. "Aren't you worried about me bringing the plague to your house, or something?"

Bucky grinned at her. "Nah—you'll be the entertainment. Aw, come on," he said as Beatrice looked away. "I'm just kidding, doll. My dad has been talking about you all day."

The name sounded endearing in his voice and not a silly pet name that guys yelled at women across the street. Beatrice had the sense that he called every girl 'doll', but even so she wished he would use her name.

She stayed quiet as they left the apartment and climbed into Bucky's car—Beatrice in the back, of course. Steve still wouldn't look her in the eyes, and as he filled Bucky in on what they'd discovered that day she concentrated instead on thinking of Ivan, and where he could have taken Henry, and how he was a spy who worked with Howard Stark…Beatrice had heard of the brilliant inventor, though she'd never seen him in person. Surely Elena would have mentioned he worked there, unless _she _hadn't even known herself…but why would a spy adopt a child, even if it was his nephew?

Bucky suddenly slammed on the brakes so hard that Beatrice was thrown forward into the back of Steve's seat, her head slamming against the leather. "What the hell were you thinking, Steve?" he asked as another car whizzed by, honking its horn loudly. "Breaking into a damn _library?"_

"Jesus, Buck, it's _fine_," Steve said pleadingly while Beatrice said a very unladylike word and rubbed her sore head. "We weren't gonna get caught."

"I don't think the librarian would have picked a fight with him," Beatrice groaned; the pain was making her more uninhibited than usual.

Steve shot her a grateful glance; Bucky looked torn between arguing and acknowledging that she had a point. "Beating up little old ladies isn't your thing," he agreed. The car lurched forward again, and this time Beatrice hit her head on the back of her seat. She was going to need a lobotomy by the time they got to Bucky's house. "Seriously, you need to stop this," Bucky was saying. "What if they thought you were a burglar, huh? Do you _want _to get shot?"

"He was helping me," Beatrice said, not wanting Steve to get into trouble. "It's my fault."

"Beatrice, no," Steve said at the same time Bucky said, "Doll, you're right, it's nobody's fault. I'm going to have to keep this one on a leash from now on." He ruffled Steve's hair, the tension suddenly broken between them. Beatrice watched, slightly bemused, as Steve relaxed, though Bucky's expression was still tight. It really was like a sibling relationship, but who was she to judge them, anyway? Good thing Steve hadn't told him about falling from the table.

"Stark, huh?" Bucky asked after a moment, breaking the silence. He met her gaze in the mirror. Beatrice leaned forward to rest her chin on the back of his seat, hoping it would soothe the pounding in her head. "He must be making serious money if he's working for a guy like that. For once, I agree with Steve—New Year's Eve is the best time to catch him."

Beatrice didn't want to wait another week to find any news on her uncle, but it seemed as if she had no other choice. She didn't want to bother the boys with her constant requests to find her brother, and she knew she would get farther if she had one of them with her. So she bit her lip instead of complaining and leaned back in her seat, trying to ignore the now-distant pounding in her head. She should be counting her blessings, not lamenting over the fact that they weren't happening fast enough. Beatrice knew she had always been self-aware, and sometimes she wished she was less transparent so that all of her flaws weren't so obvious to her. Wallowing in self-pity might not be good in the long run, but it sure helped to pass the time. Hadn't Steve and Bucky done enough for her, anyway? She couldn't ask them to go to Stark Industries with her. They had already gone to talk to Goldstein themselves completely of their own accord—if they got into trouble with Stark, who held infinitely more power than a landlord, it would be her fault. "Hey," she said, forcing herself to jerk out of her thoughts and back into the real world, "Why did you try to convince Goldstein to let me back into the apartment?"

Steve looked over at Bucky, who was gripping the steering wheel rather more tightly than was necessary. "Goldstein used to be my family's landlord," he said slowly. "He nearly swindled us out of all our money. My dad had some connections, so he brought a lawsuit against him and we walked away with enough money to support ourselves and then some. I just couldn't believe he was still doing it." His jaw clenched. "There's nothing we can do about him. The judges all have bigger things to do."

Neither Beatrice nor Steve responded, and they spent the rest of the ride to Brooklyn Heights in an uncomfortable silence, each lost in their own thoughts.


End file.
